There was no possibility that we were being watched or followed, so we headed toward Rolando’s to retrieve her backpack.
It was a fifteen-minute walk to the residential district, which appeared different in the daylight but no less deserted, and we still looked like we didn’t belong there. It was possible, I thought, that we’d been seen last night by the ubiquitous neighborhood vigilantes and chivatos, and that the police were staking out the area and waiting for us behind the wall. So, se?or and se?orita, are you looking for this backpack with the gun and the pesos? I mentioned this to Sara and she replied, “Chivatos turn in their friends and neighbors to the police, but they’d never turn in any evidence of a crime if it was worth more than two dollars.”
Right. In other words, if you see something, say something—unless you see that it’s worth money. Patriotism doesn’t buy the beans.
The low wall came into view and Sara suddenly picked up her pace, vaulted over the wall, then reappeared a few seconds later with the backpack, scrambled onto the sidewalk, and kept walking. The police did not pop out of the bushes.
As we headed for the bridge over the Río Almendares, I pulled the Glock out of her backpack and stuck it in my belt under my Polo shirt. We were traveling hot again.
As we crossed the bridge, I wrestled with the idea of dropping the hot gun in the cool river. But then I thought about our meeting tonight in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre garage, and our road trip into the Cuban heart of darkness, and our rendezvous in Cayo—and I recalled Jack’s wise T-shirt words, “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”
We looked less conspicuous in Miramar, and we retraced our path to Avenida Quinta and hailed a taxi. We were back at the hotel by four o’clock, hot, sweaty, and tired, but happy in the way that a successful but uneventful recon patrol makes you feel.
* * *
Sara went to her room to shower and change into clothes that would be appropriate for both the Mama Inés restaurant and what could be a week in the boondocks, trying to look like a backpacker. I did the same, saying adios to my discount luggage and dirty clothes except for my sweat-stained Hemingway T-shirt, which I put in a plastic bag and stuffed in my backpack.
I strapped on my fanny pack containing the Glock and the extra magazines and left the room with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, then went down to the meeting room where the Yalies were assembling for Professor Nalebuff’s lecture on Cuban-American relations. On his next trip here Nalebuff could add a footnote about Dan MacCormick and Sara Ortega. Arrested and executed? Or escaped with the Batista-era loot and living happily ever after? I took a seat and waited for Sara.
Professor Nalebuff took the podium and began, “This is the story of David and Goliath, Cuba and America. It is the story of a long love-hate relationship that spans the centuries, a story that is both heartbreaking and hopeful.”
I noticed that Richard Neville was taking notes, and I had no doubt that Professor Nalebuff’s eloquent words would find their way into Neville’s next novel. Plagiarism is the sincerest form of flattery.
Sara appeared at the door with her backpack, wearing black jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and hiking boots, and she had her shoulder bag, presumably packed with pesos. I was similarly dressed in blue jeans, a gray gym shirt, and boots. Our backpacks didn’t draw any attention because some of our group carried their packs on the bus, day and night.
Sara sat next to me and I asked, “Did you pack a bathing suit?”
So we listened to Professor Nalebuff tell us, in scholarly language, what I’d concluded before I even got here—Cuba and America had been fucking each other so long that we both must be getting something out of it.
Professor Nalebuff concluded, “If both sides act with goodwill, and if neither country causes or exploits a diplomatic incident, the future looks promising.”
Should I tell him that the diplomatic incident was sitting in front of him?
* * *
As Sara and I descended the sweeping staircase into the lobby, she said, “Since we’re not coming back tonight, we need to leave a note now for Tad and Alison to get in the morning.”
“No note. Let them think we may have been detained by the police.” I added, “Which may be true.”
She didn’t reply.
As the Yalies filed out of the hotel to board the bus, I stopped at the front desk, took the plastic bag out of my backpack, and gave it to the desk clerk. “This is for Se?or Neville. Please have it delivered to his room tonight.” I gave the clerk a five.
“Si, se?or.” He made a note of it and asked, “Your name?”
“He’ll know who it’s from.”
Sara and I exited the hotel, and she asked me, “What was that?”
“My Hemingway T-shirt.”
“This is no time for jokes.”
“It’s good for my head.”
“You need to grow up.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have an exploding cigar to leave for Antonio.” I asked her, “Did you leave a note in your room for him?”
“I left a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.”
I pictured Antonio arriving at midnight with a smile and a stiffy. Sorry, amigo. Go fuck yourself.
We boarded the bus and I saw that the driver was now Lope—Antonio’s eyes and ears when he was absent. Well, that could be a problem when Sara and I didn’t return to the bus after dinner. But I had a new teammate—Tad—who would cover for us. Or at least give us a head start.
Tad did a head count and the bus pulled away.
Within ten minutes we were in the Old Town, and we pulled up to Mama Inés restaurant, which was located in a colonial building a few blocks from the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal where Sara and I were expected at 7 in the morning. But we had other travel plans—if all went well at Calle 37.
The restaurant was dark and crowded, and the Yale group was assigned several tables. Sara and I found ourselves sitting with two young couples who should have been wearing T-shirts that said: “Clueless.” We made small talk and I was surprised to discover that these college-educated Americans didn’t completely comprehend that Cuba was a police state.
I changed the subject to sports, and as we waited for our drinks, Sara commented that she and I were going to take a walk along the Malecón after dinner and share a bottle of wine on the beach—which accounted for our backpacks if anyone wondered.
Mama Inés’ clientele, aside from the Yale group, looked like Europeans and some Latin Americans with money. The last Cuban who could afford this place was probably Fidel Castro. More importantly, I didn’t see anyone who looked like they were interested in us.
Dinner was good and our four tablemates got smarter with rum, and one of them told us that Cuba was a Communist country.
Sara glanced at her watch and said in my ear, “Let’s leave.”
“It’s early for our ten o’clock.”
“I want to take a last walk through the Old Town.”